A Little Bit of Happiness
by destiny's sweet melody
Summary: The Last War was over and Arya Stark was, somehow, alive. Without her list to keep her going, she floundered on what to do until she remembered an offer to be Lady of Storm's End. Arya didn't want to be a lady, but she did want to be with Gendry. Once she gets there, though, things might not be as simple as she once believed.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Game of Thrones_ or anything recognizable contained within this fic.

**A/N: **This spawned to life when, at the end of 8x04 I joked to myself that if Arya and Sandor survive their revenge road trip, they were going to end up running to Storm's End and Winterfell respectively all "I'm sorry, baby, please take me back." It was originally going to be in two parts, split between the two of them being confronted with not so forgiving honeys, but then Sandor/Arya BroTP feels hit me and it turned into this.

Also, for personal reasons, I have decided that most of the Dothraki actually survived, the wildlings didn't go back North because ending a series about how humanity has to come together to survive with "everyone belongs in their place" is gross, and also everything that happened after the 24 minute mark in the episode is invalid. **Especially that last scene!**

**Warnings: **language, allusions to smut, character death, **spoilers** until 8x04 _The Last of the Starks_, so AU it hurts.

**Contains:** Gendrya, and background Sansan, Braime, SamxGilly, and MissandeixGrey Worm (plus past Jonerys)

**Summary: **The Last War was over and Arya Stark was, somehow, alive. Without her list to keep her going, she floundered on what to do until she remembered an offer to be Lady of Storm's End. Arya didn't want to be a lady, but she did want to be with Gendry. Once she gets there, though, things might not be as simple as she once believed.

* * *

**A Little Bit of Happiness**

It had been months and months since Cersei died - had killed herself with strangler, much to Arya's chagrin. Months and months since the Mountain had died, since Daenerys took the throne, since Jon sacrificed himself in battle to protect his beloved queen.

Months and months of feeling empty as the world around her put itself back together. Arya had stayed in King's Landing for Daenerys, who asked her to on Tyrion's suggestion. The Hero of Winterfell - nay, the Hero of _Humanity_ \- on the dragon queen's side would only serve to endear her to the people. There was nothing else for her to do, so she stayed. Besides, she believed Jon would have wanted her to help Daenerys build her better world.

The Hound had stayed with her because he had nothing else to do either.

_I fought for you, didn't I?_ he had told her once.

Being a loyal shield seemed to be the only thing he knew how to do. To Joffrey while he grew, to Sansa while she was alone in King's Landing, and now to Arya.

But Arya didn't need a shield, nor did she want one.

"Why don't you join the queensguard?" she asked him sullenly as he followed her step for step through the Red Keep. "Grey Worm likes you well enough." As much as Grey Worm liked anybody that wasn't his queen or his wife, anyway.

"Fuck the queensguard," he spat angrily. "I've had enough of blondes on thrones and their little games."

Arya rolled her eyes. Though it was true that Daenerys shared more than a few physical qualities with the last three disastrous monarchs, she shared none of their personalities. She wasn't cruel like Joffrey, or meek like Tommen, or wicked like Cersei. It had taken far too long for Arya to see what Jon had seen, but she knew now that the dragon queen was the ruler the Seven Kingdoms needed. And The Hound knew it, too; he liked her well enough. As much as he liked anyone, anyway.

"What about the Warden of the North, then?"

The words were out of her mouth before she could think. They didn't talk about the North or the Starks or anything that came from before Cersei's demise. It left the bitter taste of ash in her mouth, and she was sure it was the same for him. Worse, even, since he knew what ash truly tasted like.

His steps faltered almost imperceptibly, she wouldn't have noticed were she anybody else.

It hadn't been hard to discover his feelings for his sister, even though he hadn't seemed to have decided what he felt for her himself. He appeared intent on convincing himself he only saw her as a child that needed to be protected. Probably because she _had_ been a child when they first met. But, well, Arya knew it was perfectly possible for a man to view a girl as someone they felt the need to protect and then decide they loved them.

They didn't talk about that, either, unless The Hound was angry.

"Why don't you go be Lady of Storm's End, then?"

Like right now.

Arya whirled around to face him, brows pulled together in anger and her hand on Needle. He didn't so much as flinch, an overconfident smirk on his face. She wasn't going to kill him, not now. She couldn't make herself kill him when she hated him, and now. . . now she wouldn't mind it overmuch if he became her brother.

And they both knew _that_, too.

Arya really hated that _Sandor Clegane_ had become the person that knew her best. Not Jon, not Gendry, not even Sansa or Bran. Sandor The Fucking Hound Clegane.

She hated that she was predictable at all. That grief and sadness and her lifelong purpose being stolen by Cersei's stupid pride had made her a sullen, unmoving thing. She ate and she drank and she smiled at the adoring crowds in the streets, but she felt nothing. She went through the motions and changed her face without changing her face - became Arya Stark, champion of humanity, instead of the angry she-wolf she knew she was - but it meant _nothing_.

All the accolades and empty titles wouldn't bring Jon back. It wouldn't make Bran her cheerful little brother again. It wouldn't make Sansa happy again. It wouldn't undo the hurt she had caused in Gendry.

She said what she said because she believed she was going to die, and it was better for him to think she didn't love him at all than to live with the grief of knowing all the love in the world couldn't keep them together.

But then she had survived the Last War. And Gendry _Baratheon_ had become Lord of Storm's End, with marriage proposals from as far as Lys. Everybody wanted to be married or related to the handsome lord that had helped defeat the Long Night. She had been right about that, at least.

_Better to have died,_ she thought bitterly, _than become a shadow without a voice._

She would serve Daenerys well, because that's what Jon would have wanted. And Sandor would serve her well, because he didn't even have anyone to make proud.

She turned back around with a disgusted sound, because their relationship was built on quiet anger. They didn't speak to each other until the next day.

* * *

"Hrazef," Missandei smiled gently.

"Hrazef," Arya repeated slowly, her tongue tripping over the harsh tones. She wondered why learning the word for horse was more important than learning 'hello.'

"Very good," the queen's advisor praised. "Qoy qoyi."

"Qoy qoyi," that one she repeated easily. "I've heard the queen use that one a lot. What does that mean?"

"Blood of my blood," Missandei explained. "It is the style of address between a khal and his bloodriders - the strongest and most trusted of lieutenants amongst a khalasar - but the queen chose to view everyone as her blood, as her family."

Arya sighed deeply and looked over to where Sandor was training with the Dothraki. Somehow, the two of them had been welcomed by the Essossi horseriders. Maybe because they could tell that Arya and Sandor had a savageness within them, too. Daenerys thought it was a good thing. And, of course, Tyrion didn't hesitate to use her new beloved public persona to ingratiate the foreigners with the native Westerosi.

_If the Hero of Winterfell - fabled land of xenophobes - can welcome the Dothraki, why can't everyone else?_

She had almost punched the Hand of the Queen for the comment. Almost, but he was right. Jon had died believing she didn't trust his judgment all because she couldn't see beyond Daenerys' foreign army. As if she hadn't spent years in Braavos herself!

"How goes the lessons?" Daenerys called as she approached them in a splendent pearlescent gown, the ever faithful Grey Worm right behind her with two other Unsullied.

They rose from their canopied seats. "Davra, anni khaleesi," Arya bowed. _Good, my queen._

Dany smiled genuinely, "San davra."

"She is learning Dothraki faster than Grey Worm picked up Westerosi," Missandei teased, and was rewarded with a playful glare from her usually stoic husband.

"I'm adaptable," Arya interrupted the praise, still unused to so much positive attention. Even when her father was alive, there were never too many moments that people were proud of her. She was always too boyish, too wild, too little of what she was meant to be. Even her own mother had told her she would never be a true lady if she didn't change.

Arya _did_ change. It just wasn't for the better.

"Yes, seems like Starks always are," the queen's smile faded, and Arya knew she was thinking of Jon. But the Breaker of Chains did not show weakness any more than Arya did. "Sansa is doing well as Warden of the North."

"And surprisingly amiable with the crown," Arya added, because she'd always had a tendency to stoke the fire.

"It probably helps that her beloved sister is here," Daenerys shrugged like she didn't care that Sansa had betrayed her - had betrayed Jon - when she told Tyrion of their brother's true parentage. "She is loyal to her family."

_Not always,_ Arya thought but nodded in agreement. "The last of the Starks have to stick together."

"The last of the Starks," the queen said thoughtfully, and Arya knew they had reached the real reason she had interrupted Missandei's language lessons. "Your brother will have to marry soon."

"Excuse me?"

"When you sister marries -" _when_, not _if_. As if Sansa wasn't completely disillusioned with marriage. As if they weren't all tired of being pushed across a board like chess pieces - "she will take her husband's name. As will you."

"I am not -"

"If the Stark name is to survive as it has for thousands of years, then your brother must marry and produce trueborn Stark heirs," she charged through the conversation with the same valor that she rode Drogon into battle. "Are there any ladies you recommend? Tyrion seems to favor the sister of the new Prince of Dorne, but it seems quite cruel to send a Dornish woman to the frozen north."

Arya couldn't find words, too overwhelmed by the queen's statement. Finally, words stumbled out of her mouth, "The last time I saw my brother _feel_ anything, he was a child! There were no ladies!"

"Feel?" Daenerys seemed genuinely confused. "I was under the impression that Westerosi unions were arranged pragmatically."

Arya had been convinced of that, too. It was why she had always been so against marriage. Even if her parents had fallen in love with each other, she knew it was a rare arrangement. She didn't want any part of something that would bind her to another person because of pragmatism. But then a wonderful man had gotten on his knees and asked her to marry him because _I love you and none of it will be worth anything if you're not with me._

And she had forgotten that marriage wasn't about love.

"Well, Missandei married for love," Arya exclaimed defensively. "I thought you were going to change things!"

"Me nem nesa," Missandei smiled. "It is known."

* * *

"Do you think it was worth it?" Arya asked over dinner. It was a quiet affair. She'd never liked crowds, and she liked the Red Keep even less. Sandor felt the same, and so they usually shared a simple dinner in one or the other's quarters.

People talked, of course. Even with the city filled with Dothraki who took women like a hound took a bitch, and with a queen that didn't feel the need to hide her sexual appetite, the lords and ladies of Westeros never truly changed.

Arya imagined her mother was spinning in her grave.

She didn't want to think of word leaving King's Landing and reaching Storm's End.

"Don't tell me we're going to have a bloody heart to heart now," bits of chicken dribbled out as he all but snarled at her. "I'm not your little bastard boy."

Her grip on her fork tightened, "If I wanted a heart to heart I'd turn to Sansa."

His fist fell onto the small table with a loud bang as he glared. She wondered for a moment why they stuck so close together when all they did was pick at each other's wounds. Maybe because that's all they had ever known. Hurting other people. Being hurt. It was easier to stick to more of the same than try for something better.

They _had_ tried, hadn't they? The Faceless Men with their antipathy were safe. Brother Ray and his pacifist followers were safe. But things hadn't worked out because they had to be in Winterfell to help fight off death. Because the Lord of Light commanded it. Or maybe it was centuries of Three Eyed Ravens. Maybe it was just coincidence.

But they had been burned too many times to try to reach for more.

"Then why don't you go back home, little wolf bitch?"

"Home? What home?" She impaled the fork into the fine mahogany wood of the table as tears bit at her eyes. She grit her teeth and forced them down. She _would not_ cry in front of The Hound of all people. "What home without Jon? With Sansa this cold, bitter woman that would have made our mother weep to see her? With Bran alive only because he has a pulse and not because he's living? Without Nymeria or Ghost? Without Gendry?"

Her throat closed up and she forced herself to breathe evenly.

"Stop weeping," his words were harsh but his voice was uncomfortable. It was obvious he had never planned on Arya Stark breaking down in front of him and didn't know what to do. "You're not going to do anything about it, so stop."

The same icy calm that had filled her when Melissandre implied she was meant to kill the Night King consumed her again. Her throat relaxed and her tears disappeared. She glared up at Sandor, "Maybe I will. Maybe I'm not as much of a coward as you."

He sneered down at her, "You're not gonna."

Her nose flared as she breathed deeply and grit her teeth. "Ornel," she called to the Dothraki woman Daenerys had given her as a handmaiden. "Prepare my horse."

* * *

It had taken weeks to reach the borders of Storm's End. Mostly due to the pace of the mini khalasar Daenerys had insisted they take with them. _They_ because The Hound was still following her every step like a lost puppy. How anybody had ever thought him a ferocious monster, she didn't know.

"Backing out now?" The Hound smirked at her as she halted her horse far enough away that any scouts on the walls would not see them.

Arya frowned, "I just think it might not be the best idea to march up unannounced with a war band." He snorted at her explanation but she held herself tall. "Ornel!"

Her handmaiden jumped from the litter that the elderly and very young were riding on and ran towards her, "Yes, my lady?"

"Go to Storm's End as my envoy. Explain. . ." Gods, how was she supposed to explain _anything_ to him? What made her think he wouldn't turn her away due to that infamous Baratheon rage? "Say Lady Stark is passing through and we need a place to rest for a bit."

"Yes, my lady."

The Dothraki were loyal, despite their reputation for betraying their khals at the first sign of weakness.

"Malakho!"

The aged Dothraki warrior who had followed the dragon queen since the beginning but had decided the claustrophobic capital was not for him, trotted his horse towards her.

"Vijazerat Ornel." _Protect her_, she thought, not sure the stormlanders wouldn't attack the foreigners on sight no matter who was leading them. Still, an older protector might make them drop their guard a bit more than one of the younger riders.

"Sek, qoy qoyi," he pulled the young woman up onto his horse behind him.

Arya felt a dull flutter in her chest at the words. Something shifted within her that had not moved since she turned down Gendry's proposal. Blood of my blood. Strongest and most trusted. _Family._ She thought her family had died with Jon.

But -

_I can be your family._

\- maybe she had the chance to make a new one.

Maybe she was already making it. Maybe this was the start.

* * *

A storm had kicked up by the time Ornel and Malakho came back with good tidings. Arya was soaked to the bone, her hair falling into her face. Her boots were muddy and her soaked woolen cloak made her look like a shaggy dog.

_At least I look better than The Hound._

It was very little comfort.

There was no one in the courtyard, for obvious reasons, but she could see curious faces peeking out through the windows. They seemed more welcoming than the northerners ever did.

The fact that Gendry, as lord of the Storm's End, was not waiting for them at the entrance didn't offer her any comfort.

Davos smiled uncertainly at her, "Quite the traveling companions you've got there."

Arya shrugged, falling back onto the uncaring persona she had used in Winterfell, "They keep things interesting."

"I'd imagine so," his eyes twinkled with mirth and she was glad that for all the fatherly affection he held for Gendry, he didn't seem to hold her responsible for breaking his heart. "Would you like to take a moment to dry up before greeting the lord?"

Arya was suddenly hyperaware of her soggy state. But, all the time in the world wouldn't help her chances. She had never learned to make herself look like a doll like all the other noble ladies. He'd thought she was beautiful even when she was bruised and dressed in thick winter clothes. A little water shouldn't change his opinion.

She slipped her riding gloves off, "Might as well get it over with."

Davos quietly and quickly led her, Sandor, Ornel, and Malakho to the great hall. The others were allowed to go to their rooms and dry up. The children and elderly would need to dry quickly lest they get sick. She had half a mind to send Malakho with them, but she wouldn't want to insult his pride.

Arya had expected Gendry to be the same exact man she had always known. When she thought of him, she saw a sweaty, sooty face and threadbare clothes. But the man standing at the end of the great hall was every bit a lord as her father had been. Tall, straight-backed, and dressed in black and gold. Even his face, severe and regal, reminded her of her father.

And Ned Stark was not known as a romantic man.

Nor were great lords a forgiving bunch.

Arya was certain there was some sort of protocol she was supposed to be following. She was meant to curtsy and thank him for giving them shelter with honeyed words. But her tongue was heavy once again, her mind in a whirlwind of uncertain emotions. And her heart. . .

She had imagined how he might react upon seeing her. Nine times out of ten, she came to the conclusion that he would welcome her with open arms. Pick her up and kiss her. Make her promise to never leave him again.

The tenth time she imagined he would faint.

Not once did she think he would act cold with her.

Just as she had gathered her wits, he spoke and sent her emotions into a frenzy again, "Lady Stark, you are most welcome at Storm's End. It is a great honor to host the hero of the dawn."

"Oh," Arya breathed so quietly she didn't think he heard it. The Hound did, though, and he bristled beside her, a hand going to his sword like he planned to kill the lord of the keep for breaking her heart. Ornel didn't know the whole story, but she'd heard Arya and Sandor sniping at each other enough times that she probably understood most of what was happening, and she reached out to squeeze Arya's hand. Even Davos seemed to sense something, his easy smile turning uncertain.

"Thank you, Lord Baratheon," she heard herself say. Her mother was probably smiling as years of lessons in courtesy finally kicked in. Her body moved on its own, curtsying as easily as Sansa ever did even while wearing wet trousers. "I'm sure our stay will be enjoyable."

If her attitude surprised him, he didn't show it. "How long can we expect you to stay?"

She had thought she might stay forever.

"Just a few days," she said instead. "To rest the horses. And the others, too. My people. . ."

"Your people?" He showed emotion for the first time, confusion marring his face. "They're Dothraki."

And the last time they'd seen each other, she hadn't wanted anything to do with them or their queen.

Or the stormlord.

Things changed.

"They're blood of my blood," she forced strength into her voice. "And I expect them to be treated with respect."

"Of course," he hid his emotions behind a stern, half-angry mask once again. "We don't treat people badly because of their origin here."

It felt like a slight, even though she wasn't sure why.

"Good," was all she could think to say.

"Good," he repeated, and it was definitely a dismissal.

* * *

"Well, this was a waste of time," Sandor rasped from half a step behind her. He was usually three steps behind her, and that was how she knew he was worried for her.

But she wasn't some delicate little lady that was going to fall apart because the man she loved no longer loved her back. She had been silly to think he would wait forever. Men fell in love too easily, and they fell out of love just as easily. She shouldn't be surprised if he already had a paramour. Or perhaps an intended. Gendry was far too good to treat a woman like a disposable sex toy.

"Not a complete waste of time," she sniped back. "It proved I'm braver than you."

Sandor spat, even though they were within the castle walls, on their way to the great hall for dinner, "You're not brave. You just thought the little bastard would be waiting for you because all he ever did while at Winterfell was stare at you with stars in his eyes."

She reared her elbow back, glad that for once he was wearing wool instead of steel. He didn't so much as break his stride as her elbow buried itself in his side, and his momentum forced her through the open doors.

A roar sounded out at their entrance as the inhabitants raised their mugs filled with ale in greeting. The Dothraki were already feasting, not even pretending they had any intention to wait for their 'lady.' She was sure, in fact, that they were probably on their second plates.

Smiling, she made her way to the table where her khalasar was sitting, when a young girl crossed her path.

"Lord Baratheon requests your presence at the high table," she smiled a gap-toothed smile, hands grasped coyly behind her back. Her brown eyes flicked over to Sandor, "Him, too."

She frowned at Arya's self-appointed guard, but that was nothing new. Most people - girls especially - tended to look down on Sandor, for fear or disgust. Sometimes, Arya understood why he was so horrible.

If she thought a personal invitation to dine with him was a sign that he was warming up to her, she would be wrong. He seemed to look through her when she and Sandor stood before his seat overlooking the feast. Davos sat at his right, and a lady - a _real_ lady with perfumed hair, and a golden gown - sat to his left.

Arya felt her heart crumble, even though she knew it had no right to. Wasn't this what she had wanted for him? For him to forget her and find a lady worthy of the title.

"You sent for me?"

"This feast is in your honor," he nodded regally. "It only makes sense for you to be at the high table. And I wouldn't want to separate you from your. . . shield."

"Thanks," she responded dully.

There was a beat of silence and then the lady smiled a dimpled smile, "It's an honor to meet you, Lady Stark. I've heard such wondrous stories about you!"

"You have?" Arya asked incredulously, wondering if it was flattering or not that Gendry spoke about her to his wife.

"Of course, we have heard of the Queen of the Dawn even in the Riverlands!"

"You're from the Riverlands?" Her hair had a bit of an auburn hue and Arya wondered if Gendry had gone and gotten himself a Tully bride. Tullys were always known to be the most beautiful and dutiful of brides.

The lady only smiled as she pronounced, "Yes, from the Twins! I am Shirei Frey, my lady."

"_Frey_?" Arya demanded loudly enough that the chatter and music cut off. "You married a Frey after everything they did to my family?"

Gendry looked taken aback, but she couldn't even care that she'd made him feel anything because _how dare he?_ How could she be so _stupid_ to think he was good and just and loyal while he went out and bedded the people that destroyed her family?

"Begging your pardon, my lady," Shirei bit her lip. It wasn't until Arya looked over to her that she realized she was glaring at _Gendry_ and not the Frey. "My father and brothers have all paid for their crimes, and Freya is doing her best to be a better lady than our father ever was a lord. And I'm not married to Lord Baratheon, I'm his ward."

"My hostage," Gendry grumbled, and Shirei smiled like it was a big joke between them.

"It's part of Queen Daenerys' plan to build peace between the kingdoms. As long as I am here, my sister will be more amenable to sending grain to the stormlands like they agreed when Lord Baratheon helped restore order."

"You're leverage," Arya summarized, a brow raised in incredulity.

Gendry made a noise like he wanted to agree with her without agreeing with _her_.

"I don't mind," Shirei smiled at Gendry in a way that made it clear that even if she wasn't his wife now, it wouldn't be long at all until she was.

Arya felt like throwing up. She took half a step back, "I -"

"Should sit and eat," Gendry interrupted. "It's been a long journey and I'm sure you'll want to gather your strength quickly so you can continue on your way."

"Right," she swallowed heavily. She had killed the Night King, she could make it through one dinner.

* * *

Arya ground her fork into the lacy tablecloth draped over the high table. If she had to see one more serving girl ogle their lord, she was going to start throwing knives! The little blonde one that had called her to the table kept coming by just to chat with him, and Gendry smiled dotingly at her each and every time.

She was going to throw up.

Sandor seemed to be enjoying himself, devouring the meat and guzzling the mead like he'd never get another meal. The Dothraki were laughing and speaking loudly amongst themselves, and the stormlanders had raised their cups in praise to her at least twelve times in the past half hour. Everyone seemed happy. Except for her.

"Where are you headed next?" Davos asked amiably from her left.

"I - I hadn't really thought about it," she admitted. There hadn't been a thought in her head aside from seeing Gendry again. That's why she didn't even hesitate to accept the khalasar from Daenerys. If she had been thinking, she would have thought twice at bringing three dozen strangers into the home of the man she planned to marry without asking, without worrying what his people might say.

She hadn't let herself wonder what might happen if he rejected her.

"Might I suggest Dragonstone for a bit of sightseeing before you head north?"

"North?" Arya's brows scrunched together. "We're not headed north."

"You're not?" Gendry leaned over Davos so quickly she thought he might fall over and take the old smuggler with him.

Her mouth dried at his proximity, "No. I - the Dothraki don't like the snow."

"Storm's End is _south_ of King's Landing, you dumb shit," Sandor drawled in his usual uncaring way. "Why in the seven hells would we go south if we meant to make for Winterfell?"

Gendry's curious eyes shuttered closed and he pulled back once more, "I thought perhaps you meant to see an old friend one last time. Before you went up to your snowy castle and never came back down."

"That's not -"

"What would she do in Winterfell? Knit by the fire?" Sandor snorted and she just barely stopped herself from slamming his face against the table. "And there's no need for the rest of us. Lady Stark has her loyal lady knight and the bloody kingslayer to guard her till the end of her days."

Gendry glared at The Hound, seemingly as angry at his interruption as she was.

"I never planned on going back to Winterfell," she found herself admitting, desperate to get his eyes back on her.

That did the trick. His eyes trailed over her face and she wondered if maybe, just maybe, he understood what she meant. That she hadn't meant to break his heart. She just thought it would be best, that it would hurt less to lose his unrequited love than to lose his wife. That she had never been happier than she had been when he said _all I know is that you're beautiful and I love you._ That if things had been different, if she had been different, she would have said yes.

But then the moment was ended by a cry of, "Arry!"

Arya blinked towards the familiar voice and found a familiar face standing behind her, an apron wrapped around his large waist. "Hot Pie?"

He wrapped his arms around her before she could even process her surprise.

"Where the hell's the hot pie?" Sandor asked drunkenly.

* * *

They lingered for three days before things began to get awkward. Well, more awkward. The storm had passed and the sky was sunny, the Dothraki horses happily trotting in the plains around the keep whenever their masters took them out. It was obvious they were well enough to move on, and there was no reason for Arya to stay.

She stayed anyway.

She hadn't seen much of Gendry outside of social obligations, and she wasn't sure if she should be annoyed that he was avoiding her, or relieved she didn't have to deal with his indifference towards her.

It was on the third day that she found out he still spent his spare time smithing. She should have realized it when she noticed the crowd of women huddled around the forge. How dare they take up her favorite pastime?

Arya cleared her throat as she approached and they all scattered, shamefaced and muttering excuses as to what they had been doing. She could never understand why women felt compelled to hide their impulses, especially when dealing with a shirtless Gendry.

"May I help you, Lady Stark?" He didn't look up from his work, but she noticed his shoulders grow tenser with each step she took towards him.

"I didn't know you still worked as a smith," she admitted her curiosity. "I didn't know you could. As a lord and all, I mean."

"There's not much time for it," he answered honestly. "But it helps me relax. Helps me focus on what I need to be focusing on."

"Smithing?"

"No," he huffed and threw the axe he was working on to the ground. "On taxes and levies and all this other nonsense that I never gave two shits about! It _enables_ me to focus," he said as if repeating somebody else's words. "And you're distracting me!"

"_I'm_ distracting you?" Outrage colored her words. How could she be distracting him if he never looked twice at her?

"Yes. You're here, you're talking, and now I'm not working," he glared at her.

She glared right back, "Then it's a good thing I came to ask for your services!"

"My services?"

"Yes," she huffed, her eyes landing on the half-finished axe. "I need a new axe! Better than that one! If I'm going to pay you, I expect an axe so sharp I can separate a fly from its wings."

"You need an axe?" his voice dripped with mockery.

"Yes, and I'm not leaving Storm's End until I get it!"

Something warm flashed behind his eyes and the breath left her all at once, the indignation leaving her. It was how he used to look at her before. What had Sandor called it?

_Stars_. He had stars in his eyes when he looked at her.

Then he cleared his throat and blinked them away, "Like I said, I don't get many chances to work. You might be in for quite a long wait."

"Fine then," she challenged. "I'll wait."

* * *

"I don't get it," Jhiji proclaimed from where she was lounging on Arya's bed, picking at a fruit platter. "Why don't you just fuck him?"

Arya rolled her eyes, "I _already_ did that!"

"But that was before," Ornel reminded her. "Now you must fuck him again to remind everyone who he belongs to."

"He doesn't _belong_ to me."

"Not yet," Jhiji replied.

"No one belongs to anyone! Besides, I can't fuck him if he doesn't want to fuck me."

"He does," Ornel nodded supportively. "He glares at The Hound the way a kos stares at a man when he wants to steal his bedfellow."

Arya's face scrunched up, "You're wrong. Why would he look at _The Hound_ like that?"

"Men like fighting for their women," Ornel explained. "Me nem nesa."

"It is known!" Jhiji agreed.

"Not Gendry," Arya leaned back in her seat. "He's different. He doesn't act like all the proud little lordlings, or assholes like The Hound. That's why I like him."

"Then just fuck him," Jhiji repeated and Arya couldn't find the energy to argue. Probably because she didn't really want to.

* * *

_Just fuck him._ That should be easy enough. All she'd had to do the first time was ask. Granted, she'd had that whole end of the world thing on her side, but it had been easy. Because he had loved her, even then. Just as she had loved him, even as she told herself she shouldn't because it would just hurt worse in the end.

Remembering that, the fact that they had _made love_ and not just fucked, made her lose her nerve as she entered his office.

She had meant to be smooth and confident, since she had never really learned proper ladylike seduction. But when he looked up at her, his eyes still guarded but softer than the first night she'd spent in Storm's End, she found all her confidence evaporating.

"My axe?" she asked instead of propositioning him.

"It should be ready by tomorrow," he answered easily, his eyes landing back on the papers in front of him. "I suppose you'll be leaving then."

_No,_ she thought. _Not yet._

"Malakho needs a new arakh!" Gendry looked up at her proclamation, and she took courage at the stunned look on his face. "Can you make one?"

"It - it might take a few tries," he shook his head as if shaking off cobwebs. "But sure, I can make one."

"Good," she nodded shortly. "We'll wait as long as it takes for you to get it perfect."

She walked towards the door without waiting for a dismissal. Just before she exited, a wild impulse gripped her and she half spun towards him, "Thank you, _my lord_."

She smiled at the familiar dazed look on his face.

* * *

"Don't you have anything better to do?" Gendry grumped over his third attempt at an arakh.

"I'm a guest," Arya answered easily. "The realm is at peace. And my people are happy. So, no."

His head ticked towards his shoulder, "I didn't think the Dothraki would like it here. Too wet."

"I didn't either," she admitted. They were a desert people, after all. She was sure they had just been desperate to get out of King's Landing when they agreed to follow her, and she couldn't blame them. "But there's lots of open spaces, lots of game to hunt, and the stormlanders are surprisingly welcoming."

Gendry snorted, "They'd have to be, with a lord like me."

"I never asked what it was like when you first got here," Arya intoned softly.

He looked up at her and shrugged, "What anybody would imagine it'd be like, I suppose. The nobles didn't like a bastard as Lord Paramount. The smallfolk didn't really care as long as the wars ended. Lots of mockery because I couldn't read well. Lots of resistance whenever I tried to change anything. Eventually, they figured I wasn't going to quit, so as long as I don't take anybody's castles, they shut up about it."

"Sounds exciting," she drawled.

"Oh, loads. I can't imagine why anybody wouldn't want to be Lord Paramount."

"Well, that would explain why people have killed for the honor before."

He smiled at her for a moment, those damned stars in his eyes, before the smile dropped suddenly. "What are you doing here?"

"Watching over your progress," she answered uncertainly.

His eyes iced over once again, "You know what I mean."

"No, I really don't."

Gendry turned his attention back to his work, "I need to concentrate, either stop talking or go bother The Hound or somebody."

Arya didn't have the energy to remind him that he'd been the one to begin their conversation.

* * *

That night she dreamt of a storage room in Winterfell and a warm body against hers. She remembered using all her Faceless Men training to hide the way her knees wanted to buckle and her voice wanted to shake as she approached him. A part of her really _did_ want to see what all the big fuss was about before she died, but if that was all it had been, she could have chosen any cold, scared soldier in the castle.

The truth was, she had chosen Gendry because she was in love with him, had been for half her life. No matter how many times she told herself it was a purely physical attraction, that she just liked watching him, she couldn't completely fool herself. It hadn't been his body she yearned for on the loneliest of nights. It had been his presence, his friendship, his stubborn insistence that he needed to protect her.

In the songs Sansa had once adored, love was always fiery passion and blind devotion. It was instantaneous and debilitating. It almost always ended in destruction or doom.

What she felt for Gendry was more like honey. Slow and sweet; she hadn't fallen in love with him until after Harrenhall when, despite all his misgivings and complaints, he had followed her through the seemingly guarded gates without hesitation. That was the moment where all the trust and affection that had been steadily building up within her bloomed into a kind of love.

More than lust, he made her feel comfort. Warm and safe in a way she never really thought she'd feel again. That she should probably know better by now to feel. They'd never really been safe whenever they were together, but there was a part of her that could sleep at night as long as Gendry was beside her.

And though she'd like to stay with him forever, had wanted that even as a girl, she could ignore him in order to do what needs doing. She could leave him behind, if need be. If that's what it took, if that would keep him safe. He wasn't a distraction to her; he was a safe harbor. A place she could return to after the wars were done.

The problem was she didn't think she would be able to return after the wars were done, and now her safe harbor had seemed to close up port.

A steady knocking on her chamber doors woke her up in the early mornings of her fifteenth day in Storm's End. When she opened the door, the gap-toothed serving girl stood there with a wrapped bundle.

"Lord Baratheon sends you this," she said simply, offering Arya her burden.

It was the arakh, she discovered. Shiny and sharp and perfect. Arya understood it was a goodbye - a _get out of my castle_ \- and he didn't even give it to her himself.

She should be angry. The old Arya would be angry. But the old Arya had died when Jon took a dragon-sized spear meant for his queen. The old Arya had died when The Mountain had disarmed The Hound and she gave up her chase of Cersei to help her new-old friend survive his vendetta. The old Arya died when she burst into the half-burned throne room and found Cersei dead on her throne, an empty vial in her hands.

The new Arya was tired.

She looked up from the weapon and saw the serving girl still there, an angry pout on her face.

"What's your name?" Arya found herself asking. She wasn't sure why it mattered, only that she should probably stop thinking of her as _the gap-toothed blonde that wants to sleep with my lover._

The blonde squinted at her suspiciously, "Weasel."

"Weasel?"

She shrugged, "It's what they called me in Harrenhall. I 'spose my mother named me something different, but I can't remember anything from before that."

"You were in Harrenhall?" Arya could still remember the screams, the cold mud she had been forced to sleep on, the sheer terror when The Mountain had chosen Gendry to be tortured. "You must have been very young."

"Seven," Weasel replied in a clipped tone. Arya wondered if she was hearing the screams, too.

That would make her, what? Fourteen? She was tall and seemed older than her years; aged by grief and hardships, no doubt.

"I was in Harrenhall, too," she admitted quietly, remembering the torture that had followed the second time she had given Jaqen a name. For once, she felt ashamed of that. At the moment, she had focused on saving herself, and trying to help Robb in some way. She had even felt vindicated! She didn't stop to think what others had suffered because of her actions. Hadn't let herself. "With Gendry."

"And Hot Pie," the wariness in her gaze faded just a bit. "I know, they told me. It's why Lord Baratheon brought me here. So I can be safe."

Oh, that explained it.

Arya felt herself blush. To think she had been jealous of a fourteen year old that had suffered unimaginable torture just because Gendry smiled at her!

"That sounds like an interesting journey," she said slowly, unsure of her footing. On instinct, she opened her door wider, "Would you care to tell it to me?"

Weasel cocked her head curiously and pursed her lips, seemingly considering. Then she nodded jerkily, "Sure."

It took three hours and a shared breakfast for Arya to learn how Weasel had worked in the kitchens, had survived the taking of Harrenhall by Hoat by hiding in a barrel filled with trout. How she had escaped while everyone was watching a tall lady and one-handed man fight a bear and eventually found her way to the inn that Hot Pie was in. How Hot Pie had taken her under his wing even before he found out where she came from, and how he became fiercely protective of her when he did.

She told her about how one day, a tall, handsome lord had walked into the inn and hugged Hot Pie like they were old friends. How the lord had just become the Lord Paramount of the stormlands and he could really use somebody trustworthy in the kitchens. How Lord Baratheon had become just as protective when he found out where Weasel came from, how she couldn't even remember a before, and demanded the innkeeper let him take them both.

It took three hours, but by the end, Weasel was smiling at her like they were old friends, "Thank you for your company, My Lady."

"The pleasure was mine," she replied with a small smile. It was amazing that she could smile like that after everything she had lived through. It was a strength that, for all her training, Arya lacked.

"It's a shame you don't love My Lord Baratheon back," Weasel said as easily as anything as she closed the door. "You would have made an excellent Lady of Storm's End."

Arya stared at the closed door for a moment, and allowed herself to hope.

* * *

"I broke my axe," Arya threw the offending object onto Gendry's desk.

His eyes nearly bulged out of his skull as he picked it up and turned it over. The blade was nicked and worn as if it had seen a decade of warfare, and the handle had a split almost neatly down the middle.

"What did you do to it?"

She had used it against those impressively large rocks on the shore until her arms felt like they were going to fall off.

"I just used it once or twice. It was shoddy work."

"It was _not!_"

"It was! So make me a new one," she commanded primly. "A better one. No matter how long it takes."

Gendry sighed heavily and let his weight fall back on the chair. His forehead scrunched together like it used to whenever he was trying to think up a plan before eventually giving up and letting her lead.

He huffed; a sound that might have been a laugh or a groan, "As you wish, Lady Stark."

* * *

Arya hadn't planned to get the Dothraki in on her little scheme. Truly, she hadn't so much as told Ornel what she was doing. But, once she had presented Malakho with his new arakh and the others had seen such fine workmanship, Gendry found himself being trailed by screamers trying to bargain for their own new set of blades.

Gendry, despite being a lord, seemed incapable of turning them away.

He somehow found a way to spend time at the forge each day, despite not shirking from his responsibilities. At least, not according to Davos. Arya found herself wondering if he slept.

By the twentieth day of her stay, and the fifth day of Gendry being the unofficial Dothraki smith, she had approached him and told him he didn't _really_ have to make the arakhs himself.

"It's no problem," he replied grimly. "This is the first thing that makes sense since I got here."

Arya wasn't sure what to say to that, so she left him alone. But, the next day she approached him in his office and offered to help him work through his papers. She knew her letters and numbers, after all. And she had spent more than one afternoon on her father's lap as he diligently ran Winterfell. She knew _a little_ about running a keep. She could never be a lady like her mother or Sansa, but she almost thought she could have been a lord if she had been born with the right bits.

So, each evening, a few hours before dinner, she sat with him in his office, never exchanging a word except to discuss some document or clarify some confusion.

She did other things, too, of course.

She went hunting with the screamers almost daily. Hot Pie cheered that the kitchen had never had such a steady supply of meat - most stormlanders not well-equipped enough to brave the surrounding forests.

She still trained in her water dance every day. She trained with the Dothraki, who always seemed confounded with the fluid way she moved around them. They attracted enough attention that Ser Davos asked her if she'd be willing to train some of Storm's End's new recruits.

She even helped entertain Lord Horpe's daughters when he came to visit. That she entertained them by taking them horseback riding across the clearings and letting Jhiji braid their hair didn't seem to please the lord. But Gendry had smiled at her - truly _smiled_ at her - for the first time in the twenty-eight days since she had arrived in Storm's End, and she had never much cared what some stuffy lord thought of her.

By the thirtieth day, it felt like routine. It almost felt like she belonged. Which meant it was time for someone to trip her up.

"Lady Stark!" Shieri Frey called to her as she walked towards the stables.

Arya hadn't warmed up to her, mostly because, unlike Weasel, it was not hero worship that shone in her eyes when she looked at Gendry. Still, she was Gendry's ward, and she was as courteous as Sansa had been as a child, so Arya couldn't make herself be rude.

"Lady Frey," she nodded in greeting.

"I was hoping I might have a word with you in private."

Arya got the feeling she knew what this conversation would be about. It seemed unbelievable that she was about to get a _stay away from my intended_ speech when she was, well, _Arya_, but the determined set of Lady Frey's brow made it clear that was about to happen.

She sighed tiredly, "The stables are private enough."

The Frey pursed her lips, obviously displeased, but followed as she continued her path. Arya set about saddling her mare, letting the lady begin the conversation.

"What are your intentions with Gendry?"

Arya spun around at the shout. Lady Frey stood with her chest puffed out as if trying to seem tougher, but her pale face was crimson and she was wringing her hands fretfully. "Excuse me?"

"You are cruel!" Lady Frey continued, her voice shaking. "I thought you incredible! A warrior queen like Nymeria come to life, but you're not. Nymeria was a wife and mother as well as a warrior, she was loving as well as brave. But you - you play with Lord Baratheon - with Gendry's feelings like a child playing with dolls. You march in with your warriors and you have him make you weapons and you play at being Lady of Storm's End and you hurt him! You hurt him and he doesn't deserve that!"

Arya felt like she had been slapped. Never in a thousand years would she believe anyone could think she was playing with Gendry's feelings. _He_ was the one ignoring her while she played the fool, asking for weapons she didn't need just to buy herself some more time by his side. _He _was the one that looked at her with stars in his eyes one moment and then with ice the next while she looked at him like she was dying of thirst and he was a cold drink of water, according to Sandor.

_He_ was the one that decided to make the Dothraki weapons despite all his responsibilities, and she was the idiot that showed up each evening to help him despite him never thanking her for it.

She wanted to say all that, but didn't want to feel like she was justifying herself. Instead, she found herself picking at the one thing that didn't make sense, "I'm not playing at being Lady of Storm's End!"

Lady Frey clenched her fists at her side, "Oh, then what do you call overseeing the kitchen? And watching over the troops. Not to mention helping the lord with the day to day running of the castle. Oh, and entertaining his guests!"

"I -" Arya was confused for a moment. Somehow, Lady Frey made sense, but she wasn't _right_, "I'm not a lady. Ladies are delicate and beautiful and just. . . sit there. . ."

There was a point to this. But, as she spoke, she thought of her mother, who went to war beside her son. She thought of Sansa, who fed her husband to hounds and oversaw the defenses of Winterfell against the White Walker threat. She thought of little Lady Mormont, who died defeating a giant, who was every bit a wild warrior as Arya, but had never been treated as less by the lords of the north. What she had seen of her, and what she had been told, indicated that the lords respected her for her courage despite her youth and untraditional ways.

Lady Frey sniffed delicately, "Yes, and Lannisters shit gold."

Arya's stomach turned unpleasantly and she mounted her horse. "I'm not playing with anybody," she muttered uncertainly. "I'll be leaving as soon as he's done with the arakhs."

According to Ornel, there was only one order left. It could be done as quickly as two days.

Two days and she'd have to leave. She wouldn't be able to handle the embarrassment of somebody else accusing her of playing at being a lady. What if next time it was Gendry?

She had been fooling herself, thinking she had found a place to belong. She knew that she had lost her home the moment her father had been killed. That had been compounded at the Red Wedding. And then, with Jon. . .

Arya wasn't meant to have a home. Maybe she was meant to be like Nymeria - her wolf, not the queen. Maybe she was meant to wander around with her war band, her pack, blood of her blood. It was better than nothing.

Arya kicked her horse in the sides and set off at a breakneck pace. A part of her hoped she would fall.

* * *

Arya opened her eyes, couldn't even remember closing them, and felt cold and pain invade her bones. She inhaled sharply to stop the groan of pain that wanted to escape. For a wild moment, she was unsure where she was, how she had gotten there, and her mind went wild as she prepared herself to fight despite the pain.

"You're awake," a voice called to her side and she turned her head quickly and saw Gendry standing just a few steps away.

Her mind slowed, as it always did, feeling safe in his presence. It didn't take her long at all to realize that the large room with an impressive brazier and curtains of black and gold were the lord's private quarters. She was in Gendry's room. In his bed. And she had no idea how she got there.

"What happened?" Her voice was hoarse with disuse. She made to sit up and flinched as a new wave of pain made her dizzy.

Gendry was at her side in an instant, a hand on her shoulder to steady her, "Easy now."

His voice was soft, like it was the one night they had together. For a moment, he was Gendry, her Gendry, the person she had come to Storm's End for. The person she had hoped to make a family with when she couldn't even bring herself to go back to her family. Then she remembered Lady Frey's words and shrugged his hand off, "_What_ happened?"

He huffed an angry breath through his nose and pulled himself to his full height. He was the Lord of Storm's End once again, "There was a surprise storm, they happen quite frequently. They move in fast, hit hard, and leave just as quickly. You were out riding alone and didn't come back. Malakho and Goro went out to look for you, and found you on the ground, bleeding from your head."

That certainly explained why she felt woozy. Her hand instinctively went up towards her skull and quickly found a knot just behind her ear. It was tender and she could feel three or four stitches. She swallowed heavily, knowing just how dangerous head wounds were. How easy it would be for her to have never woken up.

"You - you were so pale. And Malakho was covered in blood," his voice shook, and Arya realized all at once that she was even more of a fool than she had thought herself. Not because she was being ridiculous by trying to spend more time with him, but because she had never stopped to consider that he had been trying to do the opposite for the same reason. Because he loved her. Because every time he closed his eyes, he thought about his proposal and the way she turned him down. And he wouldn't even have the comfort of knowing she did it for his own good. "I thought you were dead when they brought you in."

Arya felt her heart clench at the thickness of his voice. And though she had never been good at expressing her emotions, it had always been easier to risk her heart when it came to Gendry.

"It's okay," she reached out and grabbed his hand. "I'm okay."

His eyes locked onto their joined hands and, for a moment, he didn't look like the Lord of Storm's End, or the master smith that had helped defeat the dead. He looked like Gendry from Flea Bottom, the tall, bull-headed boy she had befriended on the way to the Wall. He looked like he did when she revealed to him she was Arya Stark; frightened and a little in awe.

"Arya, I -" his fingers flexed around her hand for an instant, and then he pulled away. "I finished the last arakh for your Dothraki."

"Gendry, wait -"

He was already walking towards the door, "You can stay here until you recuperate. The Hound is keeping watch outside the door. Get better, Lady Stark."

* * *

The moment she was able to get out of bed without needing to immediately vomit, Arya moved herself back into her guest rooms. She had planned to leave the very next day, had ordered the khalasar to pack - a decision that had been met with a surprising lack of enthusiasm - but then another storm blew in. It was longer than any of the others they'd had in the thirty-three days she had been in Storm's End.

The natives were not worried, the winds were not very strong, but they warned against traveling.

"A lingering storm is more dangerous than a fierce one," Davos explained at what was supposed to be their farewell feast. "The best way to deal with it is to hunker down and wait it out. It will only be a few days."

"_Days_?" Arya cried, dismayed, but she was drowned out by cheers from her khalasar and the stormlanders. Aside from her, Gendry, and Lady Frey, no one seemed particularly displeased with the change of plans.

"Good food and a warm bed," Sandor shrugged when she turned to him for support.

Arya huffed but knew there was nothing for it. She could not control the weather, and she had already lost a battle against the winds only three days prior.

The Dothraki had been surprisingly docile during their stay. They were free to roam the plains and there was always game to hunt for the screamers. They joined Arya when she trained new recruits and so spent their energy in that way. And fighting the dead was probably enough to make anyone think twice against mindless violence.

The Dothraki were not mindless savages that could only pillage and rape their way through the world. The problem was that they were far too active for their own good. They could not sit still for too long, and when stuck in an enclosed space, due to snow or siege or storm in this case, they would devolve into either fighting or fucking.

For the sake of Gendry's household, she was glad that they didn't go for the former. But the pheromones alone could choke her!

Arya was left with no one but The Hound for company as Ornel and Jhiji disappeared for hours at a time. She was almost certain there was some sort of orgy occurring somewhere and the stormlanders had been much more welcoming of the foreigners in more ways than she had dared imagined.

Arya wasn't good at sitting still for too long either, but since the only person she had any interest in bedding didn't want anything to do with her, and starting a fight wouldn't help endear him to her any faster, she had nothing to do but stomp around the castle. More than once, she came across a sight she would never be able to unsee. It was when she turned a corner and saw Lady Frey being pushed against a wall by one of the younger Dothraki - Makkaro, she was sure he was called - his hands up her skirts and his lips on her neck that she decided to hell with the storm and marched out of the castle.

Her feet took her to the stables without thought, and she breathed a sigh of relief once she was within the structure. She was soaked to the bone once again. At least this time she wasn't wearing a shaggy coat to weigh her down.

Stepping lightly, she made her way to her black mare. "Hello, girl," she cooed gently, picking up a brush some stable hand forgot to put away and passing it through her mane. "You're a good girl, aren't you?"

According to Malakho, her mare had still been beside her when they found Arya. She had endured the rain, lightning, and harsh winds rather than leave her rider. The Dothraki seemed to take that as a sign that Arya would make a good leader. That her mare would not abandon her was a sign from the Great Stallion that they should not either.

Her mare. Arya frowned thoughtfully. The Dothraki did not name their horses, usually referring to them by descriptors. The silver, the spotted, the black. Westerosi did, though. Even Sandor, who hated sentimentality, had his Stranger that he refused to be parted from.

"What about Edda?" she asked aloud. She would never have a child she could name in honor of her father. Might as well name the horse after him. "Do you like the name Edda?"

The mare snorted and shook her head up and down thrice. Arya smiled, "I'll take that as a yes. Edda, then."

The doors to the stables burst open with such force she thought they might fly off their hinges. Arya spun around, dropping the brush in favor of unsheathing Needle, only to be gripped with uncertainty when she saw Gendry soaked and bent over, hands on his knees.

He was breathing heavily, like he had run some great distance. He glared at her, "_What _do you think you are doing?"

Arya frowned, sheathing Needle, but crossing her arms over her chest, "I don't see how it's any of your business."

Gendry pulled himself to his full height and crossed his own arms over his chest, "It's my business if Lady Stark, the _Hero of Humanity_, gets herself killed in my lands because she decided to ride her horse during a storm."

"I wasn't going to _ride_ Edda, I just needed some time alone!"

Gendry blinked, his stance becoming uncertain, "Edda?"

_Damn it!_ Maybe naming the horse after her father wasn't the brightest idea. The last thing she needed was for people to give her a wounded puppy look every time she said her horse's name. "I like the name," she shrugged uncaringly, she uncrossed her arms to wind them behind her back. A soldier's stance, an assassin's stance. A girl that still cried for her father at night did not stand like that.

"Arya," he said her name softly, and she realized that, perhaps, he was the one person that had never been fooled by any of her many faces.

"Gendry," she took a step closer to him and was suddenly aware of how close they had been. Probably closer than they had been in all thirty-five days she had been in Storm's End. Even closer than when she had held his hand.

He was looking at her with stars in his eyes.

"I wanted to -" his lips were on hers before she could finish her sentence, and she had never been so pleased to be interrupted.

Her hands went to his shoulders, her nails digging into the leather as she gripped desperately, as if she could keep them in this moment somehow. His hands held her face delicately. A stark contrast to the hungry way his lips were attacking hers. Everything was hot and wet and too much and yet never enough.

And then he pushed her away.

Arya shook her head to clear it, and forced her legs to steady as she stared at him. His pupils were blown wide and his breathing was as ragged as hers, but he seemed stricken. Her stomach twisted unpleasantly.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked desperately, running his fingers through his hair that he had allowed to grow again.

Arya flushed angrily, "_You_ kissed me!"

"You know what I mean!"

"No! No, I don't!" She snarled and pushed at his chest. He actually stumbled a few steps back and she smiled, all sharp teeth and fangs. "I don't know what you mean. I don't know what _anybody_ means, and I'm getting really tired of people accusing me of things I did not do!"

"What you did not - oh, that's rich!" Gendry recuperated the space he had lost, "You want to know what you did? How about telling me you can't be with me because _you're not a lady_, and then turning around and being the one lady everybody wants to be or bed in King's Landing? How about coming here and sending an envoy to greet me like we were never even friends? How about seeing me and being all curtseys and sweet words like a proper little lady? How about taking over my household, showing me how easy it is for you, reminding me of everything I'm not, what I can never be? How about showing me how much of a lady you can be, just so I understand that it was never about the position, it was just me?"

"I'm not a lady!"

"You are," he insisted. "Whether you like it or not, you are. You are Lady Arya Stark, Hero of Winterfell, Queen of the Dawn, the Princess That Was Promised, Nymeria Reborn. You are the lady little girls will dream of one day being."

"That's all bullshit," Arya spat. "All those titles are empty words, they don't mean anything."

She wanted to insist she wasn't a lady, but she thought of Lady Frey's words, of Weasel's words. Maybe she didn't do things in the traditional way, but she kept the kitchens stocked, and the warriors provided for, and the paperwork going smoothly. She was already acting as Lady of Storm's End, without changing a single thing about herself. And, most surprising of all, was that no one seemed to mind it.

The stormlanders smiled to see her, in fact.

"It was never about that," she insisted in a smaller voice.

"Of course, I see that now," the venom in his voice would have made a lesser person flinch. "I should have known better. A bastard's good enough to lay with, but not enough to wed, no matter how many titles are heaped on me."

Arya felt her heart shatter, "Oh, what have I done to you?"

Was that what he had been thinking all these months? His origin had always been a sore point for Gendry, much as it had been for Jon, but he had never thought himself worth _less_ than a highborn.

She grabbed his hands quickly, glad that he didn't pull away, but stricken by the lost way he stared at them.

"I didn't plan to go back to Winterfell," her voice brought his eyes to hers, and she did her best to drop all the walls she had ever constructed so that he could see her sincerity in them. Not that her walls had ever been very sturdy against him, "I wanted to kill the queen, but I wasn't arrogant, I knew I would not live to celebrate her demise. But then, I didn't even get the chance, and the war was over, and I was still there. . . but Jon wasn't."

Thinking on that day made her feel like she was drowning. For a moment, she even forgot about Gendry. She could only see the charred husk of the Red Keep, Drogon's body laying in the courtyard and Daenerys weeping over her nephew's, her lover's, body.

"Jon was my favorite," she admitted. "We're not supposed to have favorites, but he was an outsider, just like me. Father tried to make us feel loved, but Mother. . . she didn't like Jon. And she liked Sansa better than me. Because Sansa was a lady by three, and I was ten and still playing in the mud. And she would warn me, almost every day, how no one would want a lady like me. She didn't mean to be cruel, she thought she was helping me, like it would scare me into being a better version of myself, but all it did was make me hate the idea of being a lady. I didn't want to be someone that made her daughter cry herself to sleep because she liked swords more than songs."

She had to take a breath, old wounds reopening. She hadn't thought on her mother for quite a long time. Her memories had been tainted by the Red Wedding, of hearing those soldiers describing how she screamed at Robb's death. When she thought on the past, she tried to focus on the good times, the happy times, the times she felt most loved. But there were bitter times, too, and she would have to confront those someday. Just not right now, because right now wasn't about her.

"Sansa and her friends used to call me Horseface, made me feel like the ugliest girl in the world. When you called me beautiful and told me that you loved me, despite knowing me, despite having seen me kill and eat worms and piss on the ground, it was like a dream. It made me happy. And if you had stopped right there, I would have died happy."

Gendry made an impatient noise, "I know I worded it wrong. I _know_ you never wanted to be a proper lady, but you have to have known I would never want that for you. I just wanted you to be with me."

"I did," she nodded. "I did know. But _you're_ not listening. I said, I would have _died_ happy. I was planning to die and I didn't want you to hurt more than necessary."

It was always going to hurt, she knew. But it might have hurt less if he was disillusioned with her, than if he was making wedding plans.

Gendry glared at her like he knew exactly what she was thinking, "That was stupid."

"I know," she agreed, squeezing his hands in hers. "In Winterfell, you asked me to come with you to Storm's End, to be your lady. To be with you. I couldn't back then, because I thought my destiny was to die avenging my family. And then because I was lost, and it felt like I had no purpose at all. I came here because being here was the only thing that felt right. I took the long way, but. . . I'm here now." She offered him a small, hopeful smile, "So, be my lord? Be with me?"

Gendry smiled and leaned down to touch his forehead to hers. "Of course, I -" He pulled back again, looking at her uncertainly, "What about The Hound?"

"What about The Hound?" she demanded petulantly. Why was he asking about The fucking Hound when he was obviously about to declare his love for her!

He pursed his lips, "I guess you might do things different now since you live with the Dothraki, but I'm not okay with you having your lover in my home, Arya!"

"Lover? You think I'm fucking The Hound?" She punched him in the shoulder. _Hard._ "You stupid!"

"Everybody's talking about it!" he defended himself. "And he follows you around everywhere. And, I mean, I get it. You had just discovered sex when we went our separate ways, so of course you'd want more. And I guess you trust him for whatever reason."

"I haven't had anybody but you, you idiot! Especially not The fucking Hound! He's in love with my sister!"

"Oh, well, that's something."

"I cannot _believe_ you'd believe King's Landing gossip! The first thing Davos should have advised you on was to not believe anything anybody in the crownlands says until you see it for yourself."

"I was heartsick," he whined.

Arya rolled her eyes, "You were being ridiculous. How could you ever think I'd replace you so quickly?"

Gendry smiled bashfully, "Well, you're beautiful, and clever, and powerful, and I'm sure men would kill for the chance to wed you, let alone bed you."

She flushed at the flattery, laughter spilling from her lips unbidden. "But I love you," she admitted. "There's never been anyone else. I doubt there ever will be."

"Well then," he kneeled before her, smiling as radiantly as the sun. "M'lady, would you be my wife, my partner, and equal in every way that matters?"

He was still steadily dripping water, his hair was in disarray, and she was sure they would both catch a chill if they didn't get into warmer quarters soon. But he had never seemed so handsome, and nothing had ever been so perfect as she kneeled in front of him and kissed him as softly as she had the night they feasted to the Night King's defeat.

"Yes."

* * *

Nothing really changed, except that the guest quarters became the Dothraki quarters and Arya moved into Gendry's rooms. Nobody so much as blinked an eye, seeing as she _was_ a sort of khaleesi and they did things differently. The surprise came two months later, when guests began arriving for the wedding. Apparently, the stormlanders were under the impression they'd had a wartime wedding in Winterfell and were already married.

It was as private an affair as they could make it when their closest friends included the last of the Starks, the first female knight of the Seven Kingdoms, the queen's closest advisors, and the queen herself. And the last of the Lannisters came with them.

Gendry, of course, had to invite his bannermen, and Arya was gladdened to see that House Dondarrion survived, even if their lightning lord hadn't.

From the Riverlands came House Tully, and Arya was _finally_ able to meet her mother's family.

Sam and Gilly Tarly, as well as their sons, little Sam and Jon, arrived from Horn Hill, and it lightened Arya's heart a little to see that Jon's legacy was love, and not his unwanted claim to the Iron Throne.

Sansa had smiled weirdly at her ivory suit, but only shook her head, laughing, "It is so very you!"

Arya decided to take that as a compliment.

Gendry still looked at her with stars in his eyes when he saw her.

"Shehk ma shieraki anni," she greeted her sun and stars.

"Jalan atthirari anni," he responded in surprisingly good Dothraki. Granted, he'd bothered Ornel for weeks until she taught him the term of endearment, _Moon of my life_, and it was about the only Dothraki he knew, but it was the thought that counted.

"Is this going to be in a language most of us can understand?" Tyrion asked in his lackadaisical manner.

Daenerys flicked his ear and leaned down to whisper something that made him look contrite. It was amazing how effective the Targaryen could be even without her dragons.

The ceremony was in the manner of the north and so was over quick. The feast, however, went on until the early hours of the morning. They'd stayed much longer than most newlyweds would. There would be no bedding ceremony because Arya would stab anybody that got near her and Gendry was of a mind to get rid of the tradition completely. Besides, it wouldn't be their first time, nor their last, so there was no need to rush.

It would, however, be the last time for a long time that they would see their friends. So, they lingered.

Long enough that Tyrion got drunk enough to weep at the beauty of young love.

Long enough that, for once, Jaime Lannister dropped his cocky facade and stared adoringly at Brienne as she blushed, awkwardly making small talk with Pod and pretended she couldn't notice.

Long enough that Grey Worm gave up his constant vigil and gently held his wife as they swayed to quiet music.

Long enough that Bran, still stone-faced but with an old, familiar warmth in his eyes, reached out and took Meera Reed's hand. His guest. His betrothed.

"The Starks of Greywater Watch," he intoned calmly when Arya asked after the arrangement. "It has a nice ring to it. And with no White Walkers, there doesn't need to always be a Stark in Winterfell anymore."

Bran turned his head to the right, and Arya followed his sight to see Sansa all but cornering Sandor.

"Are you coming back to Winterfell with me, or not?" the redhead demanded. "I don't know how many different ways I can make myself clear with you. Must I appear in your chambers naked?"

"Little bird," Sandor tripped over his tongue, looking for all the world like a green boy.

"Direwolf," Sansa corrected. "Now come."

She strode out of the room with purpose. Sandor looked at the air in front of him confusedly for a moment. Almost on instinct, his eyes found Arya's as if he was waiting for an order.

She raised a brow, "What are you waiting for?"

He frowned, but pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning on and followed her sister.

"I might actually miss him," Gendry smiled, wrapping an arm around her waist.

"Oh, really?" Arya teased.

He blushed, remembering his foolishness, "He's not that bad. Just an acquired taste."

Arya threw her head back and laughed. After a moment, she turned in his arms and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, "Well, My Lord, I'm tired of speaking of The Hound. I'd like to start my new blissfully wedded life now."

Gendry pressed a kiss to her temple, "As you wish, M'lady."

* * *

**A/N: **This got super long, but I'm glad I managed to get it done before the weekend and actually post it before the new episode! I honestly don't think they'll end Gendrya open-ended like this fic implied, but it was a neat idea. **I also don't think that Gendry should give up his lordship** to chase after Arya because, one, she turned him down and he should respect that, and two, he could actually do _good_ as Lord Paramount as someone who actually cares about the smallfolk.

I'm still in the **Arya wants a family/pack** not to "sail west of Westeros" camp. She only said that because she was running away from the Faceless Men, but her whole thing was getting back home, being with her family, wanting Gendry to be her family. It's stupid for her to give up her family (with or without Gendry) to kill the queen, when she literally stopped trying to do that because she heard Jon was in Winterfell. It's like a total 180.

I know the show has Gendry as a dumb jock type figure (like his dad, I guess), but he's a trained smith and **he should know how to read at least a little**. He would need to keep records if he ever ran his own shop.

**Shieri Frey** is a canon character in both book and show. In the books she's only 6, but in the show she was one of the potential brides presented to Robb before the Red Wedding as the youngest who "hadn't bled yet" so I imagine she's between Sansa and Arya's ages. I kind of went back and forth whether I wanted her to be a "rival" for Arya or just a concerned friend that Arya perceives as a rival due to jealousy, and ended up with like half and half. She has a crush on Gendry (because who wouldn't?) but realizes he loves Arya and she loves him so it was inevitable they'd get together so she got herself a hot piece of Dothraki.

**Weasel** is a book only character whom Arya meets on the road to Harrenhall and is used pretty much to show Arya's protective, maternal side. They cut her out of the show because she never makes it to Harrenhall and just kind of disappears. Arya hopes she makes it, but we never know for sure. So, I aged her up a bit and made her a POW, but gave her a happy ending.

**Malakho** is actually a show canon character. **Ornel, Jhiji, Goro, and Makkaro** are OCs, and their names are all derivatives of canon characters, because there's only like 20 named Dothraki characters and most of them are dead by season 3.

**Even if Bran ends as Three Eyed Robot**, in my heart, he heals and starts being human again and marries Meera Reed.

I swear, when I was watching that **SanSan Scene in 8x04** I really thought it was going to end with Sandor getting up and walking after her. Sansa was giving signals that he failed to pick up. So, that's what she's referring to in the last bit.

**I love Jon**, but now I kind of hope he dies just to spite Varys. I doubt he will, it'll probably be Dany and I'll be bitter about it forever. But Dany is 100% valid in her anger and distrust, and Jon is a good man but terrible king (**he did the right thing in ALL the wrong ways**) and I'm tired of the "person that doesn't want it is the best for the job" bs. That's not true! If you hate your job, you're terrible at it. Simple as that!

I used two different Dothraki translators as well as the wiki for the sentences, but (much like Tolkien's Khuzdul) Dothraki has a bunch of words missing because they didn't care enough to give them a full lexicon. Why do I choose to love the races that the _creators_ don't care about?

Please review, and let me know what you liked, didn't like, and what could use improvement!

~ Destiny's Sweet Melody


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